El flamenco según Caspar Ciraulo
Driven by my lifelong passion for the guitar, I have been trying for years to understand how and in what way the sensitivity towards a certain aesthetic genre – in my case the flamenco toque – corresponds to the identification and definition of personal musical identity. In this titanic fight with flamenco, of which, of course, I am not an interpreter but a devoted lover and apprentice, every minute on the guitar gives me insights and riches that I will check and write down in a writing project. A book that will soon see the light, and that I will have the pleasure of offering to anyone, embracing a guitar in the belief of perfecting their knowledge, or worse, having fun, you find yourself as involved in an authentic “tragedy in first person”.
Among the many fortunes that would have given me the attendance of a linguistic high school, the meeting with German literature remained decisive; so, a few years ago, I would have started to wonder about the linkage between performed music and the two novels of the twentieth century that par excellence treat music; between a game of glass beads and a Dr. Faustus, a written investigation was born on the artistic identity as proper rite of passage.
Among the many fruits of the meeting with the biographical story of Vivienne Haigh-Wood, the occasion for a reflection on the psychic identity, investigated in the second-sight pregnancy, existential opportunity, perceptive port, would also have been born; music here has nothing to do with the matter; rather, there is a tangle of sacrifice and artistic inspiration, love and disease, dualism and individualism, madness and mystery that always live in every proper relationship.
The legend of Reverend Caspar Ciraulo
Following my constitutive inability to live in a house, be it physical or spiritual, and the many and not always discernible acquaintances of what some call “decentralised I”, the project of investigation on my personal ethnographic identity, an interweaving of North and South, swamps and cliffs, sweat and spleen. A journey in search of my family roots, conducted under the spiritual guidance of my inseparable alter ego, Caspar Ciraulo: who probably does not even exist. But the blues, he does play it well, like black people do, and as for tortellini and lambrusco, he is no second best at all, for sure.